


Frustrated

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frustrated John, Frustrated!John, John needs to get laid guys, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock, Pining John, Pining!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1875099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to lay his plans slowly, but it's getting frustrating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frustrated

John is getting frustrated. Very frustrated.

The first day he was back in Baker Street, Sherlock had flounced out of the loo naked as a jaybird, and John found it endearing. ENDEARING. Because Sherlock had always been less-than-concerned with modesty. And it was a sign that at the very least, after all the drama and danger, they were where they had started. Not that he had stared, of course. John is more subtle than that. 

Two weeks later, it was intolerable.

“Christ, I’m even starting to use the words he does…” John mumbles to himself.

“What was that John?” Sherlock flounces by, and plops—if Sherlock can “plop”—on the leather sofa. In an open dressing gown over nothing but a pair of gray pants.

“Nothing.” John sputters, eyes widening at the prone, white figure sprawled on the couch. He quickly turns his eyes back to the book.

“Mmmm…talking to yourself, John. A bit not good.” John sneaks a peek at the couch. Sherlock is stretched out, long toes digging into the arm of the couch. Such bony feet. Long, delicate bony feet. John swallows. Hard.

“Yes, well…” he clears his throat and trails off. John turns his attention back to the novel in his lap. Or tries to, until he sees a flash movement in his peripheral vision as Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and closes his eyes. He sighs—or maybe grunts, or maybe a combination of both—and sinks further into the worn leather.

John recognizes the heralds of Sherlock descending into his Mind Palace. Usually he does it with clothes on, but if John can just keep his eyes on his book a few moments longer…he hears Sherlock inhale deeply, once. There. He’s dead to the world, deep in the recesses of his own mind. Now John can look freely.

When he does, his mouth goes dry. The gown has spread and drifted around him, exposing his entire front. His whirlwind flat-mate has been transformed into an alabaster marble statue. John’s eyes start at those bony feet, pressed into the leather. They travel up the milky white calves to his sharp knees to his thighs. His skin is so white, dotted with light freckles and covered in a fine hairs, just a shade lighter than the curls on his head. Up over his hips, the full bulge in the fine gray cotton, to the flat stomach. Too skinny, but with an air of softness. Perhaps his Sherlock’s stomach wouldn’t be as hard as it looks, but firm with a bit of give.

John wants to press his face into it.

His eyes linger for longer than he wants on the silvery-gray scar tissue below Sherlock’s right pectoral and his throat tightens. John blinks for a few moments, fighting the wetness threatening to make itself known in his eyes. Oh, how he wants to touch that scar. To kiss it, to sink his teeth into it, breaking the flesh and overwriting the symbol of Sherlock’s pain, of the reminder that he almost lost him again.

Someday he would. John’s eyes continue traveling, up over small pink nipples and a sharp suprasternal notch above the chest that houses such a lovely heart.  Long fingers tented and hiding a long, pale neck aching to be licked, that would look so beautiful with small bruises sucked into it. Sharp features, strong cheekbones. Dark eyelashes that frame the most earnest, curious, BEAUTIFUL eyes John’s ever seen. A shock of black curls, cradling that incredible, awe-inspiring brain, standing out in perfect, dark contrast to the white skin of his transport.

Sherlock is stunning.

John has always fancied the softness of a woman. Or at least, it was always what he fancied enough to pursue. Maybe he had been attracted to men before, but it wasn’t deep or emotional enough to make itself known? Or maybe John had consciously ignored it, choosing to follow what had made itself blatantly obvious in the past? The soft curves, hips and breasts, femininity. Sherlock is all angles and lines, sharp planes. He is none of those things.

John doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. Sherlock has taken everything he thought he knew about himself and torn it asunder. Turned it on its head and left it to its misery. John doesn’t know which attraction came first, which came last: to Sherlock’s mind, body, or heart (because he does have a heart, John is sure of it). But he couldn’t be arsed to care. He wants it all now, can’t imagine wanting anything or anyone else.

It is INTOLERABLE.

Not to mention he hasn’t had sex since right after Christmas, one forced rendezvous, for the sake of the ruse. John’s jeans are uncomfortably tight. His fist is getting old.

He has to be careful though. One false move, and he’ll lose all of Sherlock, body, mind, and heart. John sighs wistfully, looks back at the bullet hole in Sherlock’s skin. Sadness and desire is an interesting combination, almost unbearably so.

“John.” Sherlock speaks suddenly, eyes still closed. “Tea.”

John blinks as if awakening from a dream, adjusts his zip and stands.

“Sure thing.”

He realizes the framed drawing on the wall is one of Sherlock’s feet. He’d never realized before.

Fuck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to whoever realized Sherlock had drawn his feet and hung it on the wall of Baker Street. I don't remember who it was, I'm sorry. But thank you!


End file.
